That Wise Old Iron Lady
by SonicTeamFreeWill
Summary: Carlisle, Esme and the wise and beautiful Tour Eiffel, Paris.
1. Lost

**AN ~ ****Carlisle is bored with Paris, with the world, with his monotonous, lonely life. He is moved by a powerful experience involving a drunken Frenchman and half a monument.** **Great song for this one, especially the beginning: 'Desperate' by David Archuleta**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the song, or Carlisle (dang it!), and while I did considerable research into the Grande Dame de Paris, I know pretty much nothing about her creator Alexandre Gustave Eiffel, so forgive me for ruining your reputation if I did so, sir :) Nor do I own Mackenzie L's awesomeness (double dang it!) which inspired me to think more of Carlisle and Esme's relationship development away from home. Or 'Moulin Rouge' for directing me (and the lonesome, depressed Carlisle) to Paris.**

Lost

Alone. Again.

Or rather...still.

Carlisle sighed and closed his journal. There was nothing to write. Nothing of interest had happened to him in the last day - the last week - the last month. Nothing inspired him any more. Life was all browns and greys: the colour and youth of the world had been drained by the century or so he had spent wandering it. Alone.

The alarm clock at the end of his desk went off, and he batted it onto the floor as he reluctantly got up for work. Another day of suffering, and watching people suffer. Another day of bloodlust to resist, positive thoughts to attempt, self-harm to avoid. Another day of being ridiculed for his apparent youth...God, he wished he was as young as the humans around him believed.

_Another day of rain_, he added to his list, looking up at the sky as he stepped outside. It was dark, turbid, but not threatening a storm. Only the miserable dribbling rain, once again. Carlisle prayed for a storm as he watched the clouds, begging for something, _anything, _to disrupt the monotonous pattern he had fallen into. His thick coat and impermeable skin made no difference now: Carlisle was soaked to the bone with melancholy.

.o.o.o.

He kept to himself through the bustling streets, the flashy stores and homely markets being of too little import to catch his eye. He crept up the few stairs to the General Medical Practice and pushed his way inside, the bell giving an irritatingly cheerful tinkle in greeting.

"Good morning, Doctor Cullen." The receptionist blushed and batted her eyelids, a lustful sparkle in her eye. Like winding a clockwork toy, Carlisle forced himself to perk up.

"Oh, yes," he agreed, sounding distracted though he aimed for enthusiasm. Eager to get out of any kind of social interaction - most especially, at this point, conversation - Carlisle hurried down the hall to his office and shut himself in. Letters were waiting on his desk, the top one marked red.

_Eviction Warning,_the envelope read. Carlisle reached for the very tempting dagger at the back of his desk - a mere paper opener, not that the real thing would have done him any harm anyway. Suddenly, he drew his hand back. What did it matter? Why bother opening it? Why bother trying to stay in the middle of a city anyway? An expensive city at that. Why was he here?

The arts of Paris no longer held any interest for him, and the city's nightlife never would. He wasn't needed as a doctor - in fact, there were so many in the city that they had to cut down on shifts to avoid an economic disaster. He wasn't appreciated as, well, anything. He wasn't human but he was an awful vampire, a useless doctor, a totally hypocritical Christian...

"Doctor Cullen, Mrs McFarlane is here to see you," the receptionist called. Carlisle groaned, ran his fingers through his hair and tried to smile.

"Send her in."

.o.o.o.

Carlisle packed up his very few belongings and wrote a letter to his landlord explaining that he was unable to keep up with payments and so would be leaving the residency and the city. He waited until the middle of the night, when half of Paris went to sleep and the other burst into hideously colourful life. Only at the blackest moment did he decide to make his escape.

Carlisle fled Paris through backstreets and alleyways wherever he could help it, but in his haste, he forgot to manoeuvre his route around the 1889 Paris Exhibition. It being the middle of the night, Carlisle might well have escaped unseen, were it not for one lonely man, sitting under his very controversial iron tower.

"They don't see your beauty," the man gargled, clearly drunk, stroking the iron bars and rivets he drank under. Carlisle froze, clinging his one bag of possessions tightly to his chest, praying it was dark enough that the man couldn't see him.

The stranger hiccupped, tossing his now empty whisky bottle aside.

"_Useless and monstrous? _Bah! Just you wait! They'll regret not looking hard enough! One day, you'll come into your own. Everybody will look at you and smile, and you will be loved by everyone who passes you. Just wait for that day..."

Apparently having decided that his motivational speech to the tower was over, the man curled up and shut his eyes, almost instantly disappearing into the world of sleep. When Carlisle decided the threat had passed, he hesitantly crept up to the tower. It stretched high above his head, high above many of the buildings that surrounded it. It was regal, majestic, a symbol of great accomplishments...and it was only half completed.

Carlisle put his hand against the metal. It was still slick with the rain that had drizzled all day. He felt a spark of something...something he was longing for...something he could not name...

Never mind that, though. He had a train to catch, a new life to search for. Drunken Frenchman and their misunderstood works of art belonged back here, back in the inconsequential world that held no reason, no inspiration for a man without a heart, without purpose. Carlisle sighed and pulled back from the tower.

Its majesty was gone. Raindrops slipped down the cool surface like tears decorating the face of the lonely tower - outlandish science, monstrous art, it could never belong here. Outlandish vampire, monstrous man...he would quite likely never belong anywhere. All the same, it was nice to feel the warmth of sympathy again; he had long ago given up when he might feel that way. It was a quality he only now realised he had truly missed in himself.

Carlisle smiled half-heartedly up at where scaffolding marked the incompleteness of this creation. He wished that he could have seen the tower completed. Maybe then, it could have stirred true life back into his lonely, world-weary heart.

The tower groaned, leaning an inch or so towards him, pleased but exhausted with its efforts.

"No, you're right," Carlisle decided, talking to the tower to avoid talking to himself. "You've given me enough. I thank you, sweet lady, and I will be on my way."

He tipped his hat to it and headed off for the train station.

He slowed a little and tilted his head with curiosity as he passed a beautifully tended garden in the middle of the street. Strange...he must have passed this way a dozen times before, and never had he noticed that the flowers were yellow.

.o.o.o.

The world started coming back to him in pieces. Yellow flowers, kind gestures, valiant actions that took his mind off the painstaking effort he went to every day. But it wasn't enough for Carlisle. Trivial things became brilliant distractions, sometimes so much so that he was inspired enough to stay in one town for a while so as to learn and experience as much as he could about something that interested him particularly. Yet they were merely distractions. He was still wandering, still lonely, he still was lingering in this world; a ghost among billions of physical beings.

Carlisle no longer worked as a doctor. He just didn't keep up residence anywhere for long enough. Nevertheless, over the next decade and a half, he collected quite a bit of money. It never really mattered to him - after all, he had nobody to spend it on - until he saw a very enticing advertisement in the corner of the Travel Agent's window.

It was not a particularly thrilling poster in itself: a few small, fairly predictable images of majestic landscapes and smiling families. What caught Carlisle's eye was the title printed right through the middle of it all.

_America: The New World._

"That right there is a world of opportunities for a smart young man like y'rself, sonny," a man declared from behind, in English, in a rather slack accent. Carlisle twisted around, taken by surprise at the stranger's language and accent. An Englishman, not so unlike himself...

The older man smiled.

"The name's Mr Murray. I'm the owner and manager of this here fine establishment," he greeted gustfully, holding out a hand. Tentatively, Carlisle shook it.

"That's right, that's right, don't be such a pansy!" Mr Murray laughed heartily and Carlisle felt an intense desire to disappear.

"What do you say you come inside and we'll see what I can arrange for you, my friend?"

Friend?

Carlisle was knocked off balance by the word. He knew it was a sales gimmick and that this man, as open and friendly as he seemed, probably addressed everyone as such, but still...Carlisle had been alone for so long, it felt good to hear an inviting word again.

_Ting ting! _announced the little bell above the doorway, snapping Carlisle out of his trance. He was surprised to find himself already through the door of the homely little travel agency. From the street, Mr Murray stared at him with wide eyes.

"Well, you _are _eager, aren't you?" he smiled affectionately.

"Yes, quite," Carlisle replied softly, glad the older man couldn't see him flush with embarrassment.

"Ah, a Londoner," Mr Murray grinned. "Come on, my fellow countryman, let's arrange you a new life in the New World!"

Carlisle flushed deeper.

.o.o.o.

Carlisle lay on his bed on the steamer that was currently on its way to America, the land of opportunities. His fingers were interlaced behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling of his small room. Fish made for a terrible diet, but at least it was something different. The water in his shower room stunk like copper, but again he found himself cheerfully noting that at least it was something different. The pages of his journal had quickly filled themselves, and so he had bought another from the stationary store downstairs.

For the first few months, he found himself intrigued by the enormous vessel that chugged its way so readily through the vast ocean. Now, having exhausted the last inch of the ship he was able to explore, Carlisle settled for swimming around it at night. During the day, however - seeing as the deck was far too high for any human to be seen jumping off it - he was confined to the ship itself. He decided this was not such a bad thing, having found his outlook on life considerably brightened ever since his profound experience sympathising with a half-constructed tower of iron.

It was this profound experience he now pondered, looking up at the ceiling with his fingers interlaced behind his head. It was January 12th, 1914: it had been fifteen years exactly, to the day, since that fateful midnight meeting. He could remember every detail; every slur in every word that the drunken Frenchman had preached to his beloved tower, not knowing that there was another member of his audience.

_"__Useless and monstrous? Bah! Just you wait! They'll regret not looking hard enough! One day, you'll come into your own. Everybody will look at you and smile, and you will be loved by everyone who passes you. Just wait for that day..."_

When it was completed, the world would gaze in awe at its majesty and quickly realise they had been wrong about that tower. Carlisle smiled at this. Maybe had been wrong about himself. Maybe, one day, he would find a meaning to exist, a reason to make more effort than he already did, someone or something that inspired him to put his full weight behind everything. Maybe he would surprise himself with his own abilities.

Maybe, one day, he would be completed.

O Lord, how he waited for that day...


	2. Smitten

**AN ~ This one is considerably more light-hearted than the last one; it was a challenge to write but fun**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Paris, the Eiffel Tower, Mr Eiffel, Joan of Arc, Carlisle, Esme, OR Edward or the words 'smitten' or 'ninnies' (LOL)**

Smitten

Esme was excited. Today was to be her first walk through a busy market - and in Paris, of all places! Of course, Edward and the remarkable Doctor Carlisle Cullen would be accompanying her and keeping a close eye, which only made her feel better about today. Bouncing on her heels, she tried over and over to sit her hair neatly, but it just wouldn't go.

With a sigh, she settled for her most recent positioning and moved her attention to her blouse, which had come crooked with all her bouncing. She wanted to look absolutely impeccable in the company of her gracious hosts...and particularly, of late, Doctor Cullen. She never addressed him as _Carlisle _out loud, despite the fact that he had insisted many times. The problem was, Esme was knocked breathless by the very thought of his name. And _her _name; on his lips, it sounded holy...

She was conflicted, though. These feelings were strange to her, and though she found them thrilling, she didn't know how long they would last - part of her hoped they would stop right away and part of her willed them to stay with her forever. More importantly, did _he _feel the same way about her?

_If only I could ask him..._Esme sighed and leant on one arm on the vanity, staring through the mirror, envisioning for the thousandth time the path of action that, in some of her wildest daydreams, she might one day take. She would just walk straight up to Doctor Cullen and-

"Esme!" Edward hissed, appearing in the doorway between her small 'bedroom' and his.

Esme scolded herself, blushing as her rampant daydreams were cut short. The fact that her cheeks couldn't get hot or flush red was no help in covering up her embarrassment with a mind-reader present.

_Sorry, Edward, _she apologised meekly.

"I should think so," Edward nodded sternly. A crooked smile broke out on his face then, cracking his mask of distaste. "You need to concentrate today, Esme...or shall I tell _Doctor Cullen _to cancel our little outing?"

_No, no! I am completely, one hundred percent focused._

Esme was dying to go outside. She had been pent up in this nice but rather small apartment for four days now, because of the sun and the crowds in town: Carlisle and Edward were monitoring them so they knew what to expect. Esme was not so methodical: her every sense longed to walk the streets of the legendary _Parie_. She was missing so much, trapped in this box when outside, there was beautiful art and sweet smells all over the winding, cobbled streets that weaved through the city. Not to mention, the fabled _Tour Eiffel_, Alexandre Eiffel's grand iron masterpiece that had caused enormous ripples throughout the art world. Esme only dabbled in the arts herself, but she would dearly love to see this tower. Doctor Cullen had told her about it with such enthusiasm that it must be something very worthy of praise.

"Esme, are you ready?" Doctor Cullen asked, knocking on the door. Esme shivered and swooned for a moment before her senses returned to her.

_Heavens, this is getting worse! _Would she really be able to focus today? Maybe she should cancel.

"Uh, yes, coming," she said instead, hurriedly fixing her collar and snatching up her gloves.

_Thud._

She ran straight into Doctor Cullen's chest as she shot out the door. He staggered back a few steps, but quickly recovered his balance.

"Are you sure you're ready to do this?" Concerned golden eyes gazed down into hers, and Esme felt a shiver of delight. Doctor Cullen's fingers clasped the tops of her arms, but not painfully; in fact, she felt rather safe in his steady hands.

"Esme? Are you okay?"

Esme shook herself out of her trance.

"Yes, no, yes," she stammered. "I'm just a little nervous."

"That's understandable," Doctor Cullen smiled warmly at her, "but you really don't need to be. Your control is beautiful."

Esme stared down at her simple, white, lace-up boots - suddenly the most fascinating objects in the room - until Edward joined them. As the three of them filed onto the street, Edward flashed Esme a knowing smile. She scowled and pretended that she hadn't noticed, even though she knew it was too late. She would never live this down.

.o.o.o.

Carlisle admired the brightness of the markets - so vibrant, so different since the last time he had been here. The basket on his arm was weighed down with all manner of stall produce: he wondered how the others had managed to slip so much in there, but he didn't mind at all. He looked forward to hearing their stories about what each object held for them. Edward insisted he had nothing to do with the growing pile, but Carlisle had spotted him subtly deposit a few items.

Nestled amongst the colours was a smooth, flat black box: this was the only thing Carlisle had picked out himself: an exquisite calligraphy kit for Edward, whose beautiful music deserved to be written out lovingly, not scrawled with a pencil stub.

"You didn't have to," Edward murmured, strolling a few yards behind Carlisle.

_Yes, I did. _Carlisle smiled with satisfaction. Today was a brilliant day in itself, made far better because he could share it with Edward and Esme. It gave him a sense of solidarity to know that they were enjoying it and, no doubt, were seeing different things in the world around them, depending on the angle their mind happened to take. It was quite possible that Carlisle would never understand exactly what each of his companions observed, but he surprised himself by accepting that this was unavoidable. Nevertheless, as he walked through the Parisian streets, he puzzled himself with the enigma that was Esme.

She was a few yards in front of him, skipping every few steps with an energy and joy not usually outwardly portrayed by women of her age. She wore a soft yellow blouse and matching skirt, and even though the sky above them was painted grey, it seemed that she was wrapped in sunshine. Carlisle smiled, watching the bronze curls bounce as she skipped over to a stall and began examining a sky-blue scarf. It hadn't even been one year since he changed her, and she had spent a lot of that time confused, upset and even a little bit frightened: it was so fulfilling to see the spring in her step, the light in her eyes now. She was beautiful.

Carlisle shook his head. He was clearly not thinking straight. Firstly, Esme was far _far _younger than he was. Secondly, surely Esme's budding artistry made her a better match for Edward? And even that was a little farfetched. Third; _if _he knew what he was doing, which he decidedly did not, could he ask her to commit to a relationship so soon after so many disasters?

"You're just as bad as she is," Edward muttered just behind Carlisle. He had his hands in his pockets, looking casually around, quietly admiring everything in his own way.

_Esme? Bad? _Carlisle thoughts were thrown into a jumble as he snapped out of his trance. He stopped and spun around, and Edward stopped too.

"Hopeless, the both of you, if you don't mind me saying." The younger vampire grinned at his creator. Carlisle frowned.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"You like her-" Edward put one palm flat "-she likes you-" he held out the other "-and yet both of you are totally gutless ninnies who daren't speak a word about it."

Carlisle was at a loss for words. He glared at Edward for want of some snappy response, and then made a point of turning on his heel to march on at a renewed pace. Before he could take a step, he realised that Esme had disappeared.

Carlisle and Edward shared a horrified glance, and then darted off to find her.

.o.o.o.

Esme sighed in wonder as she looked up at the gallant tower. Its blue-grey spire reached for the paler grey sky, and seemed to touch it. The other clouds drifted lazily past, but it seemed this part caught on the tower and tore slightly; just enough for the sun to break through.

Esme looked frantically for a place to hide before the sun could reach her. The only conclusion offered was the tower itself, so up she went. And up and up and up, thousands of stairs: she had to escape the eyes she felt were boring into her. When humans were around, sun was a danger; sun meant exposure. Only at the top of the tower, where she was finally alone, was she convinced that she was safe.

Her skin sparkled like diamonds as the sunlight shone down on it. The crack in the sky widened, inviting a soft, creamy light to brighten the whole city. Esme walked slowly over to the railing, awestruck, as she watched the sun clean the city that stretched out below her. It truly looked as though someone was wiping away years of grime with a fresh cloth, revealing the true beauty of the city in a way never seen before.

"Amazing," she breathed to herself, wrapping her hands around the railing slowly, taking care not to disturb the atmosphere with any sudden movements. A breeze blew past, gently ruffling her hair, drawing the grey blanket back over the city as the clouds hid the sun once more. Now, though, Esme could see through the darkness: the city's lack of shine didn't take away from its beauty at all.

She sighed again, this time with longing. If only someone could see her like that: look past her scars, her mistakes, and the fact that she was now a dangerous predator, and look right into her bare soul. There was one in this life who could achieve that: who could one day know her just as well, if not better, than she knew herself. But that one remained oblivious to her affections, and no matter how hard she tried, she simply could not reveal what she felt for him. If only she were braver, like the heroic _Joan D'Arc. _Esme smiled to herself and shook her head: Joan of Arc might be able to speak out, but Esme Platt was doomed to admire her love from the sidelines. Not so unlike the tower, Esme thought, running a finger along the steady rail: the Iron Maiden, who looked over her city with love unrequited.

Esme faintly heard the door behind her creak. Soft footsteps crossed the platform and a second pair of hands joined hers on the railing, a few feet away. _Carlisle._ Esme endured the familiar shiver at the thought of his name, and this made her only more determined not to face him.

"You shouldn't have run off like that," he reprimanded softly.

"I know. I'm sorry. I saw it and I couldn't help myself. It just pulled me in." She risked a glance to check his reaction: a soft smile.

"I felt much the same way the first time," he said. Then, tentatively, he added; "but something else pulled me in this time."

He gently took one of her hands in his, guiding her a few steps back from the railing. Esme thought her heart might melt at the tenderness in his eyes. There was a long silence as the pair stared at each other, waiting for words to come. Now more than ever, Esme was painfully aware that her soul was laid bare under Carlisle's gaze, and she was helplessly unable to tell him so.

_"Je t'adore, _Esme," Carlisle breathed at last, in a perfect Parisian accent. Esme closed her eyes, savouring his words just in case she woke up and discovered she had been dreaming this whole time.

"Carlisle," she said softly when her eyes flickered open. There was no weak shudder this time, no urge to blush or turn her face away. "I love you too."


End file.
